


Petites Angoisses (et Grosses Phobies)

by Bumocusal



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ableism, Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angry Kissing, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Anxiety Disorder, Arguing, Awkwardness, Castiel is Jack Kline's Parent, Dean Winchester Has Anger Issues, Dubious Morality, Fluff and Angst, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Meet-Cute, Misunderstandings, Past Relationship(s), Phone Calls & Telephones, Sexist Language, Social Anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-05-09 07:56:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14712164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bumocusal/pseuds/Bumocusal
Summary: Have you ever said "I love you, bye" over the phone to a stranger?It's a reflex.It's also the reason Dean dreads meeting Castiel.





	1. Etouffee

**Author's Note:**

> There is some Louisiana French/slang in this. If you're from any French-speaking countries, please know that the grammatical errors are purposeful.
> 
> This was not beta'd. Sorry about that. But I did come back to edit and fix things on 3/30/19 (mostly formatting). I go into more detail about how this evolved from a one-shot to a three chapter story in the endnotes, if you're interested. Seriously, thank you for reading, though. It was natural writing this—like detailing my own experience with anxiety but through the character of Dean. 
> 
> FYI: The internalized homophobia isn't from Dean. It's his perception of a porn video he's watching. The sexist language is Dean, though. Because we all know how Dean likes to throw around less than pleasant words for women. The ableism is hard to describe without revealing too much of the plot. If you are really curious/worried it could be a trigger, comment and I will explain! :)

Dean sighs, clenching the phone roughly in his fist. Perspiration building on his forehead and the back of his neck as he stares down at the blocky red lettering. The words  _LAST WARNING_  glaring back at him from the top of the paper. It was slipped under his door sometime this morning, long before Dean rolled out of bed. At the bottom of the notice, a phone number was penned in a cursive script.

After ten minutes of rereading the notice, Dean's figured that his roommate Benny had been skipping out on paying his half of the rent and now they're both being punished for it. He was being forced to call his landlord’s lawyer—a person named Castiel Novak-Shurley, who had an incredibly beautiful signature but was no doubt going to con him out of every cent he’s ever earned. A pit forms in the bottom of his stomach at the thought, what kind of intelligent conversation could he have with a lawyer without sounding like a high school dropout? 

He shoots off a few texts to Sam, who is currently getting his doctorate of jurisprudence at Stanford, for some brotherly-attorney advice. But the Sasquatch just sends back a series of unhelpful emoji’s.

How is he going to explain that their rent not being paid on time wasn’t his fault? Dean tries to remember the contract he signed when he moved in, but he doesn’t recall the clauses of being behind on expenses. If he’s charged interest on the late payments and has to come up with all the money Benny hasn’t been paying, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. He barely had enough cash for groceries last month, being a mechanic isn’t exactly a well-paying job.

Pressing the buttons slowly on his phone, he waits nervously as it rings through.

Someone picks up on halfway through the second ring: voice high pitch and feminine.

“Hello, this is Mr. Novak-Shurley's office. My name is Kelly. How may I help you?”

“Hi,” Dean swallows apprehensively. “I’m calling about a notice that—“

“Name?” 

“Dean Winchester,” Dean says, spelling out his last name when she asks. “Like the rifle, yeah.” 

“Okay Mr. Winchester, I’m going to connect you through to Castiel. If you could type an extension into your phone, which I'll give to you momentarily, and then press the pound key—the hashtag, it’ll send you to his office phone where he’ll put you on hold until he can pick up. If the wait is longer than ten minutes please hang up and call back. Alright?”

Dean makes an affirmative noise, “Alright.”

“Nine-one-zero-one. And then the pound key.”

He inputs the info and waits, an elevator jingle filling the speaker as he’s put on hold. Its two minutes of melodic waiting before he starts to pace. His roommate is done with morning classes at twelve, so Dean has a few hours left to think of how to confront him.

Benny isn’t a bad person—Dean knows that much from when they briefly dated—so something must've happened. It isn’t like Benny to just stop paying his half of the rent. Even still, that doesn’t mean that Dean isn’t disappointed. If something was going on in Benny’s private life: if he got fired or someone died. Dean is a decent enough human being where he would cover for him and then they wouldn’t be in this mess. Who knows how long this has been going on anyway? Crowley, their landlord, was pissed enough to call a lawyer and the paper said it was their final warning.

He’s pacing the wooden floors, socked feet sliding every time he turns. He wishes he was wearing the gripped socks Mary had gotten him for his birthday, but they’re in the hamper and need to be washed. It’s not like he can go barefooted, though. It’s April—which means rainy overcast days with the thermometer staying on the wrong side of sixty are the standard.

Glancing out the kitchen window, past a crudely depicted dick-and-balls-combo drawn graphically on the foggy glass, Dean’s nose wrinkles at the gloomy sky and soaked sidewalk. That’s the downside of living in Louisiana, the second rainiest state in America. The rain boot was a staple piece of the Bayou wardrobe. On days like today, where the sun hasn’t been seen in a solid week, he wishes he still lives in the Midwest with Mary. Or in California with Sam.

 He wonders lazily if he’s going to be one of those forty-year-olds who still live at home with their mom. He winces at the thought. Mary is in that faze of middle age where she has a new boyfriend every week and thinks her sons are cramping her style. His old childhood home is a cougar den now. He couldn’t imagine dragging himself back to Lawrence and setting up shop in his old bedroom when his mom was getting freaky with men closer to his age right down the hall.

Living with Sam would be even worse, though. The kid wasn't some mid-thirties bachelor that had years left of finding himself: Sam was already married to a woman named Eileen and owned his own law firm. If living with Mary made him feel older than he was, watching out for his mom like he was the parent, then living with Sam would have the opposite effect. Dean is supposed to be the older brother, but Sam is already _way_ more accomplished four years his junior.

The Sasquatch would never flaunt his success, but Dean always knew he was the deadbeat of the family—taking the title as soon as their dad died. 

He can’t remember the last time he called someone other than Mary or Sam. Living in the twenty-first century really reinforced texting instead of calling, which Dean was perfectly content with seeing as he was already socially anxious enough without adding a telephone into the mix. If he needed to talk to his boss, he’d text. If he needed food delivered, he’d use Postmates. There is _never_ an occasion where he needs to pick up the phone and call someone.

Until now, that is.

Dean remembers when he was a kid, back when a flying nun was his favorite TV show and a corded landline wasn’t obsolete, he would glow eagerly when it was time for his weekly phone call to John. His dad had moved out when Dean was only nine, having an affair and accidentally fathering a child. Dean didn’t understand a lot back then: just that “mommy and daddy didn’t love each other anymore” and the only time he got to talk with John was over the phone.

When he was four, roused from a vibrant dream after smoke seeped under his closed bedroom door, he was the first one to run downstairs and call the police. John had instructed him to tell the operator their address and that there was a fire before running in the nursery to save Sam and Mary. Dean had held the Pepto-Bismol pink phone in his hand, not able to escape the suffocating smoke pluming down the vents by fleeing outside as the phone was bolted to the kitchen wall. He spoke shakily into the receiver as the room above him exploded. He didn’t know if his family was alive in those everlasting moments, then John came sprinting down the steps with Mary thrown over his shoulder and Sam tucked in his right elbow.

Maybe that’s why the notion of talking over the phone makes him shudder? Such a distressing experience when he was younger. Even talking with Novak’s secretary has him sweating bullets, his armpits and forehead soaked. Her voice tiny as he pressed his cheek firmly against the cool glass, it brought those memories rushing back.

He swallows around nothing as the music abruptly stops. Ten minutes exactly. 

There was a breathy exhale before a gravelly voice crackles through the line. “This is Castiel, how may I help you?”

Dean clenches his empty fist into a ball and chews down on his bottom lip.

The voice is heated: a polar opposite to the chilly temperature outside.

There’s no Cajun accent, either, which Dean had gotten used to since moving to the Pelican State. He remembers meeting Benny for the first time in Kansas, that deep southern inflection had piqued his interests. But after living where everyone was sporting at least a hint of the Cajun drawl, he’d lost the attraction. This voice, Castiel Novak-Shurley’s voice, coarse and hot right against his ear makes Dean quiver.

His mouth is dry. Like all the moisture and spit was juice pressed out when he heard Novak-Shurley's voice. Like it was stuffed with cotton. And Dean can't relate that feeling to anything other than a shock. Tugging his sleeves past his fingers for warmth, Dean tries to settle his erratic breathing. It's like all the oxygen was forced out of his lungs and he can't refill them. Is this what a panic attack feels like?

Dean gulps for air, his chest burning. He manages to speak, "My name is Dean and I'm calling about a notice that—"

"Are you one of Crowley's?" Castiel interrupts steely. 

Dean clears his throat. "I, uh, think so. Yes."

"How about we meet up and talk in person?" It's less of a request and more of a command. "What is your calendar like this week?"

He didn't even pretend to have a convivial schedule. And he didn't own a calendar except on his new phone, which remained untouched since he bought the damn thing. Almost a thousand bucks for a piece of plastic that would be out of date by this time next year. Fuck Sammy for coaxing him into buying it, using a guilt trip about Dean never calling him and mom going right along with it, whining about Dean's old flip phone not being able to receive her Snapchats.

"Uh—Thursdays are free, but if that isn't a good day for you then you'll have to wait until I get off from work, which is from nine to five."

"I'm available tomorrow," Castiel answers, a few scratching noises indicate a pen being used. Then a clicking sound as the ballpoint is sprung back into the pen. "How about noon? We can go get lunch."

Dean feels the need to say, "Mr. Novak, you don't have to meet me in a public place so I won't cause a scene." 

"I know you won't Mr. Winchester," Castiel rumbles back. "A chunk of your money is at stake here."

"Alright, as long as we're on the same page. Do you know where the Guidry's Cajun Café is?" His stomach growls at the thought of authentic gumbo: a dark roux, a rich smokiness, and gooey okra. Sometimes spicy if he's brave enough to add some Texas Pete.

"It's in Carencro, I believe."

"Exactly," Dean replies. "Can we meet there tomorrow at twelve?"

"Yes. See you then."

"Okay, bye. Love you."

"Love you too."

He hangs up.

It takes half a second for him to register exactly what he just said.

His entire face turns beet red.

 

 

Dean Winchester isn't someone who gets embarrassed easily. He has anxieties, talking on the phone being one of them, but holding onto uncomfortable moments isn't part of his personality. This moment, however, will be the exception—where he accidentally told a random person he loves them and then has to meet up with them tomorrow, it will haunt him forever. 

As he mentioned, his nature really doesn't allow him to obsess over flubs like this. Ever since he was a teenager, whenever he humiliated or disgraced himself, he took everything with a sunny cheerful attitude and brushed it off. Living in New Orleans, his life hasn't changed much from when he was in Kansas or South Dakota: drinking, fucking, and fighting. He doesn't know if there's something in the water, but he doesn't imagine this horrible feeling of flawless chagrin releasing his mind anytime soon. It's a total flip of the script.

"I guess I need to learn how to deal with awkward situations as an adult."

Dean had given up and FaceTime-ed his mom.

"You think that's awkward, imagine your father and I spending our honeymoon on a waterbed," Mary replied, contrary.

Dean makes a gagging sound. "You're not helping, mom."

"The seventies were a different time, honey."

He'd rather take the emoji-filled texts from Sam.

 

 

Dean leans against the hood of the Impala, the sunshine a welcome sight after the past few weeks of non-stop downpour. The café was a charming little gallery-like building with a screen porch and shiplap siding. The color, a different paint than it's original led filled cerulean, was a simple peach that complemented the white trim.

He thinks he's got last nights initial embarrassment out the way. Castiel  _did_  say he loved him back, so they both must be pretty mortified and that helps Dean rationalize the experience. So, with that out of the way, the only reason he hasn't walked into the restaurant is Benny being on shift—or he's supposed to be, at least.

Last night, several unanswered texts and one angry voicemail later, Benny still hadn't come home, which was when Dean was expecting to confront him. And now Dean was walking in on his roommates work to discuss said roommate to a lawyer. He prayed that Benny wasn't going to be their server. This was going to be a problem. Dean just needs to build up the courage.

And he quickly does as the ripe sunlight excites mosquitoes.

He walks through the door, smiling politely at the hostess Elizabeth. "Hey, Liz, I'm meeting a Castiel? Is he here yet?"

"Fella's been here for ten minutes," She points him towards the back section. "I thought you knew better than to make your dates wait, Winchester." 

"Don't worry. It's business, not pleasure," Dean winks at her, grabbing a menu brattily as he makes his way around the lectern. 

The first thing Dean notices is the dark unruly bedhead, sticking up in all directions, begging for fingers to run through and comb it down. Blue eyes are peering curiously at a menu, squinted yet brilliant with the open window beside the table allowing sunlight to brighten the frosty color. There are sharp cheekbones, a square jaw, full lips, and a strong extrinsic nose that sections off the face. His back is very straight, rigid yet elegant like a ballet dancer. He's sharply dressed in a charcoal suit and navy tie with a tan trenchcoat that pushes the look from disheveled tax accountant to Columbo-wannabe.

He's stunning. And Dean is definitely staring. The only reason he snaps out of it, walking towards the table again and avoiding a second embarrassing moment with the same guy in twenty-four hours, is Castiel's eyes shooting up from where he's examining the menu. 

"Sorry, I'm late." Dean blusters, reaching out for a handshake and sitting down—their hands connecting over a Mason jar of wild daisies.

Castiel hums, unimpressed. "A moment later and I would have presumed you were standing me up."

Castiel's formal way of speaking is really distracting, which Dean had noticed way back when they were on the phone. It sounds like he's swallowed a dictionary and is randomly throwing big words together, or maybe that's just Dean's lack of formal education coming through. There was also a rudeness to his greeting, an indifference that felt like a double sided sword. Either that or perhaps Castiel is just as troubled over the accidental declaration as he is. Dean could only hope.

"Of course not." Dean smiles cordially. 

Andrea sashays over before the conversation can continue. With her brown hair twisted up in a hairnet and claw-like nails concealed under turquoise rubber gloves, Dean suspects she's been dragged out from the kitchen to wait tables. That means Benny didn't show up for his shift. Dean feels apprehension pinch his eyebrows together, he might have to ask her if she knows anything about Benny's disappearance. 

"Why hello, Dean and friend." She greets, asking, "How are you fine fellas today?"

"Peachy, Andrea," Dean responds, giving her a mollified smile.

She has her hands crossed in front of her waist. "Can I start you off with drinks?"

"Any local beer you got on tap will be fine."

"We got Abita this season."

"Amber, then," Dean confirms. 

"And for you, sha?" She asks Castiel.

Dean notices a second too late that the man seems totally out of his element. He rushes to answer for him, "He'll have the same, honey."

"Be back with 'em," She tilts her head down and leaves.

There's an awkward silence that follows. 

"While we have a moment, I feel the need to say I'm sorry for yesterday's phone call. I didn't realize what I had said until after you hung up, and even then I was confused." Castiel remains his professional tone. "See, whilst most people develop habits and your slip up was obviously an acquired practice from perpetual usage—I have no one in my life that I say _I love you_  to on a regular basis. So, my own response was a puzzling anomaly."

"It's fine, dude," Dean feels tension twinging the back of his neck. He pretends like he didn't spend the better part of last night and most of this morning thinking about the phone call. "I  _was_  the one who knocked the first domino." 

"I would still feel more comfortable if you accepted my apology," Castiel stays resolute.

"Nothing to apologize for, but yeah. I accept." He expertly changes the topic. "So, have you found something you like?"

"This isn't my typical cuisine," Castiel seems reluctant to admit. "I'm afraid I don't know what to order."

"Call me a traditionalist, but you can't go wrong with a good pot've gumbo," Dean advises, then has a thought—"Wait, do you like Cajun food?"

"Well, we  _do_  live on the Bayou," Castiel deadpans but immediately softens his next words, "But to be frank, my meals mostly consist of peanut butter and jam sandwiches with a cup of herbal tea brewed to peak tartness. The craziest my routine normally gets is a teaspoon of honey mixed in with my cha. Oh, and from time to time I allow my self to gorge on greasy hamburgers. "

"Sounds dull for someone living in the state known as a boundless spice rack," Dean teases, folding his hands together and twiddling his thumbs.

 "Yes, I suppose." Castiel seems to remember himself, he clears his throat, "Let's discuss your predicament, shall we?"

Dean straightens up, realizing he had subconsciously leaned in. Stupefied by the way Castiel's mouth moved. "Yeah, um, but if you don't want to be interrupted by the waiter we should wait until after she gets our drinks."

And almost as if she had been eavesdropping on their conversation, Andrea comes back with their beers. They are in tall glass mugs: the foam filling half and the honey-colored beer sitting at the bottom and permeating the rest. He gets a good mouth full, upper lip smeared in the froth, the full-bodied, caramelized, flavor coating his tongue. Guidry's Cajun Café knew how to pick local brews, this was probably the richest beer he's ever had. Castiel, who had taken a sip of his own drink, shares his own praises. 

He is struck by the image. Castiel, adorned with his own foam mustache, sitting prettily across from him. His lips bright pink and curled into a satisfied smirk.

It wasn't normal for Dean to be instantly attracted to guys. He wasn't that kind of bisexual—maybe because it was safer, but he only allowed himself to be interested in women based on first sight. With guys, he pined from a distance and awkwardly acted like it was bro-behavior to linger when hugging or stare a little too long into deep ocean eyes.

That's one thing that transcended gender, Dean's attraction to blue eyes. 

Dean never made the first move when it came to guys, it always felt too risky. Benny had to practically stick his hand down Dean's pants before he got the memo—he can still imagine his confused, blushing face as Benny pressed him up against the side of Ellen's bar, mouth fastened to the side of his neck. The thumping music of the Roadhouse, some bass filled country song that had shot up the top forty but after a month was never heard again, reverberating through the brick exterior. It vibrated against his back as Benny pressed him against the wall. Not long after a pair of split lips moved from his throat to his jaw to his mouth. Lips as sweet as the shots of gin they'd both downed after a hard day of construction work.

Of course, it didn't take him long to catch up, Dean Winchester was anything but innocent.

"This is very good."

And Dean laughs, stifling it into his fist. Castiel tilts his head, not understanding how ridiculously attractive he looks right now. 

"Yeah," He says, giving Andrea a thumbs up. "Great pick."

She beams, pulling out her notepad and dull-led pencil. "How about something to fill your bellies? Today's special is steamed vegetables."

Since Dean's already ordered Castiel's drink for him, he proceeds, "We'll both have a bowl of your gumbo with the veggies on the side."

"Awesome, I'll tell our cook and come back over to top off your drinks."

She stuffs the notebook back in her apron's pocket and then tucks the pencil behind her ear. She solutes them, two fingers tucked, before turning and flouncing off to the kitchen. Dean had seen the back before, Benny bringing him here during their first date, it was a grimy country style kitchen with white tile and peach flooring. All the appliances were at least a decade old, the hood above the range had more grease than a teenager's pubescent face. But the feel of the place, the easy-going looseness that one gets from eating soul food, it made all the quirks minuscule. 

Left to their own devices, Castiel speaks, "Are you ready to talk?"

"Born ready," Dean replies intuitively. 

Nodding, Castiel pulls out a binder from his adjacent seat, overflowing with papers and red pen marks. He turns towards the back, most of the pages ripped at the punched holes thanks to active flipping, and he eventually settles on a page with  _WINCHESTER_  scribbled on the top. It looks almost identical to the handwriting on the note he found in his apartment yesterday. 

"I have a few obligatory questions I'm required to ask first—if that's alright." Castiel peers up at him. 

"Ask away," Dean shrugs.

"Alright, first is your occupation." Castiel appears thoughtful, taking a sip of his beer. "What is your job, Dean?"

"Mechanic," Dean says, his jawline flexing. He braces for the usual judgment people with money give— 

—But Castiel just continues without comment, "Employer?"

"Rufus Turner," Dean licks some leftover beer foam off his top lip. Castiel's eyes follow the movement. The moment breaks when Dean resumes talking, "Use to work for my Uncle Bobby, but moving to Louisiana didn't help the distance between house and workplace. Somehow the commute to South Dakota didn't seem worth it. Bobby's old hunting buddy, fortunately, a mechanic himself, decided to give me a chance."

With razor-sharp concentration, Castiel actually looks curious. "What is your salary? Did it drop when you moved down here or did your Uncle make sure you kept the same position?"

"Same position. I tinker with cars, fix blowouts, change the oil. Depends on the day, really." Dean is reluctant to share how much he makes but relents after reminding himself that Castiel is a lawyer and this _is_ his job. "This last year, after filing my taxes, I made about twenty-six thousand. And then most of that went to my mom up in Kansas. She's living on her own, retired, and really needs help upkeeping the ol' homestead so I support her in any way I can. And that usually involves sending my monthly check."

"That's admirable," Castiel notes seriously, catching Dean's eyes and holding the connection.

Dean's eyes dropped to the grain in the table, his throat bobbing and cheeks crimson. "Uh, thanks."

"Why did you move to Louisianna, if you had a steady job and family up north?"

He could practically feel the interest wafting off Castiel, who had chin resting in his palm as he stared curiously at Dean.

Sucking in a quick breath, Dean takes a chance, "My boyfriend's family lived down here. Benny and I had been together for a few months when his little sister got sick. He needed to be here for her and I doubted our relationship could've handled the distance so I moved for him. Of course, whether we were close or far apart, being with Benny wasn't a walk in the park. We broke up six weeks after we moved."

"Benny? Why is that name familiar?" Castiel ignores the biggest bombshell—Dean's bisexuality.

He sighs quietly in relief and then starts explaining, "Maybe you saw his name on my lease. He  _is_  my roommate."

"Wait, Benjamin Lafitte is your ex?" Castiel is squinting at him like he can't believe what he's saying.

"Yeah, man. It was easier to just keep our living arrangements." Dean has told this to Sam and Mary multiple times. They think he's crazy for living in the same apartment as his ex-boyfriend, but honestly, it's natural for them. They separated amicably, kind of, and were friends first. It was actually refreshing and easy to just cut off the romantic part of their relationship and remain friends. "I mean, it was a mutual break-up. It wasn't like we wanted to stop being friends. I love the guy. We're just better as brothers, I guess."

"Sure," Castiel placates, adding, "But isn't Mr. Lafitte the very one who is skipping out on his side of the rent?"

Dean's throat clicks. "How did you know that?"

"It is fairly apparent, Dean," Castiel says cordially. "You're a very responsible, caring man. I've gathered that much from our short conversation. You take care of your mother, sending her most of your pay-checks when you are the one with money problems and debt. You only knew me for ten minutes and you've taken care of me, ordering my drinks and food when it was obvious I was out of my element. I can't imagine you purposefully missing your payments and ignoring multiple notices by your landlord." 

It takes Dean a few moments of slack jaw gawking before he succeeds in saying, "That's one Hell of an observation."

Castiel exhales noisily through his nostrils, totally exasperated. Andrea skips over with a tray of their food. Castiel sighs louder.

The bowls are huge, round like saucers and ceramic with similarly patterned underplates. They look handmade, which Dean knows is true thanks to the many pottery classes held at the arts and craft store a few blocks down. She places their gumbo squarely in front of them, affirming they be careful when handling the dishes since the gumbo was clear off the hob. She sets down their steamed vegetable mentioning that they may need to add extra salt since the cook didn't want to over season.

"And if you need me, I'm just a whistle away. I'll freshen your drinks in a few minutes, too." Andrea curtsies and walks back to the kitchen.

She takes the tray but leaves some hot sauce, salt, and pepper. Dean gives her a small dip of his head before he starts to adjust his meal. This wasn't the first time he's eaten here, not even the hundredth. Knowing Benny has been great for discounts. So, he salts his veggies and fixes two splashes of hot sauce in his gumbo before he has everything accurate. He watches Castiel follow his example, except only putting one dab of hot sauce into his gumbo.

They both blow carefully onto a spoonful before taking a bite. Dean smiles as the warm creamy stock coats his mouth. Guidry's Cajun Café only serves seafood gumbo, so as the shrimps flake apart in his mouth he also gets a strong taste of crab. Dean looks across the table to Castiel, raising his eyebrows in question. Castiel has a blissed-out expression, mouth full, as he sends Dean a thumbs up.

Swallowing, Castiel says, "This is very good, Dean."

"You keep saying that." Dean rubs the back of his neck, he tries to divert the attention away before he becomes anymore flustered. "So, anyway, do you have more questions for me before you drop the bombshell on how much I owe Crowley?"

"A few more," Castiel stabs a broccoli, bringing it up to his mouth and chewing on it steadily. "I really applaud your honesty so far."

“I’ve been—” Dean pauses, finding the right words, “—very straightforward with you. Usually, I'm more tight-lipped, but you're easy to talk to."

"I appreciate that," Castiel states, seriously. "And if we work a certain angle, I'm sure we can get you out of this."

"A certain angle?" That echoed sinisterly.

Castiel flips his enormous binder to the next page and scribbling down words undecipherable from Dean's point of view, AKA upside down. Of course, with Sam in his family, he's gotten used to even the most illegible chicken scratch. Castiel eats another spoonful of gumbo before resuming, "There's only one way I can see curing this dispute and I have a feeling you might not like it." 

"How much does Crowley have on me?" Dean asks first, because if Castiel's idea was going to turn him off as much as he had built up then Dean needed to know how much he was going to be losing.  

"Almost seven thousand," Castiel says empathetically. "And that's accounting for my services as well." 

 He feels his eyes widen. How had a few missed payments channeled to such a large bill? He says as much to Castiel. "I'm confused."

"Like I was saying, I have an idea." Castiel finishes his glass, pushing it over to the edge of the table for Andrea to grab when she comes over to refill. "Just something I believe might help with the debt Crowley has on you since when you signed off on your lease you agreed to a late payment penalty clause. Usually, you can't collect a late fee until thirty days past the first deadline. But since it's already been a month, we can't go through that route." 

What's the idea?" Dean asks, his nose wrinkled curiously.

Andrea comes back before Castiel can answer, her face wide with an unassuming grin and left hand clasped around a white piece of paper. Must be the check. It's covered in her loopy handwriting, both of their meals twelve dollars plus the five buck drinks. Dean slides his hand over, forgoing dutch, and placing his credit card lightly on top of the bill. He might be going through a slump regarding money, but it's been instilled in him to always foot the bill when he's trying to impress—even though Castiel knows of his struggles, which is embarrassing in its own right.

He hears Castiel scoff, reaching his hand over in Dean's line of sight—and what nice hands they were, tan long slim fingers with lovely nails—to snatch up Dean's card, pushing his own debit in its place. It makes his stomach feel fuzzy, meeting Castiel's eyes over the flowers and binder to see a lightning storm in those magnetic blue eyes. He has to look away before he leans over and presses his lips against Castiel's.

"Take your time," Andrea says softly. Smiling and walking away, picking up the check, Castiel's card, and their dirty dishes. She doesn't fill up their nearly empty glasses, but since they're almost done any way he figures it's not that big of a deal.

Castiel resumes their conversation, poised, "I believe we should shift all the blame onto Benjamin Lafitte."

And for the second time since they first spoke, Dean feels a bone-deep discomfiture settle within him.

Benny never argued with his fists, their break up was more due to emotional chick-flick shit, but his well thought out words packed a powerful punch. Maybe that's what enticed Dean first, the way he appeared so strong without utilizing his obvious muscles—such a stark contrast to Dean's dad. Those rainless azure eyes and cuddly embraces didn't hurt either. 

If there's one thing Dean Winchester is good at its loyalty.  

He remembers Lawrence, Kansas with a vague wistfulness and golden hue. The air smelt fresher, the sky was bluer, and the people had that small town hospitality you had to experience to understand. His mom's mouthwatering apple pie could also be a factor for the tenderness, but he hasn't tasted that flavor since he went Hell-bent for leather on a search for even greener pastures.  

Being no older than seven, Sam still sleeping in a crib and John just moving out, the childlike wonderment of youth was like sand flowing through fingers. It was rough on his mom, between unemployment and despair Mary's life had hit a speed bump that resulted in Dean taking care of his younger brother more often than not. He remembers the on-the-spot dinners he came up with: burnt grilled cheese, microwaved spaghettios, and stale lucky charms. Then there was the nightly routine, brushing his brother's teeth and sitting with him in the nursery until he fell asleep.

One of his fondest memories, the moment when he vowed to protect his little brother forever, was when Sam's chubby little hand reached through the bars of his crib to grasp Dean's own. It was the only way his little brother could go to sleep. Even now, some thirty odd years later, they have to text each other goodnight. 

No matter how many times Sam, Mary, or Hell, even John let him down—Dean is an idiotic martyr and refuses to give up on people. Benny has been in his life going on four years now and the thought of throwing his friend to the wolves is nausea-inducing. Even after breaking up, which might not have been as amicable as he had made it out to be, Dean fought to keep his friend and even stayed in their shared apartment. 

Dean will _always_ be Benny's friend, that loyalty is like a crutch to his other emotions, but he'll let someone else mop up after Benny's next careless mistake—Or so he believed before it was unveiled that the bastard hadn't been paying his side of the rent. Even still, giving Benny the short end of the stick will never be an option.

"Yeah, I'm not doing that," Dean crosses his arms, leaning back against his seat. 

Castiel glowers, "Dean, this is the only way we can get you out of this debt." 

Andrea capers over, blind to the budding argument, to drop off Castiel's debit card and she inadvertently boosts the frustration and tension another scale.

"I don't care, buddy," Dean grits as soon as she leaves. " _You_ might be fine with throwing _your_ friends under the bus, but I'm not." 

"That's not exactly what—" 

"Oh yeah? Please explain to me what you want to do," His voice involuntarily rises as he interrupts. 

"Benjamin Lafitte is the reason you have these expenses, it would only be logical to assume he would be paying for them. So, your loyalty and hang up on this absent lover can't be an exception. If we don't follow through with this obvious out, I hate to say this Dean, but you're exponentially screwed. That's a fact. And with the way you've described your family, I'm assuming no one has the means to help you. I mean, it sounds as if you're a welcome mat to deadbeats. Just this once, don't let the roadie camp out on your couch. Stand up for yourself. Otherwise, Crowley is going to own you for the next ten years at least." 

Dean clenched his knees in his hands. "Fuck you. You don't get to shit-talk my friends and family like that and not expect me to kick your ass."

"I'm not _shit talking_ anyone, Dean, I'm just relaying what you've told me."

"You've been cold-hearted bastard since I first sat down. It's like you have no emotions. And don't even pretend like you don't think you're superior to me." Dean grits his teeth. "Forget this whole thing! I'm not a psychopath that ditches his friends. I'd rather make a deal with the devil than sign at your supposed righteous, holier-than-thou-art, bat shit crazy dotted line. So fuck you again. If you think I'm a doormat, wait until you've felt my fist, buddy."

Castiel abruptly stands up, jaw clenched and posture ridged. "I believe our meeting is over, Mr. Winchester. I'll send your interests to Crowley."

Grabbing his binder, returned debit card, and his tan trench coat that had migrated to hanging over the back of his chair, Castiel stomps off rather robustly. Dean feels very small at the moment, but all the while annoyed. He slowly finishes his steamed vegetables, almost like a defiance to the way Castiel left so swiftly, and casually stands to his feet to leave. He makes sure to stop by Elizabeth's station at the front before slinking off to his car, he's still not processed what a major screw up these last five minutes have been but he's sure that instead of watching Judge Judy tonight he'll be cursing himself out in a mirror.  

Did he really just shout and threaten the guy he accidentally gave a love confession to not twenty-four hours ago? If he hadn't single-handedly caused all of these problems, he would be expecting Ashton Kutcher to jump out any time now and tell him he's been punked. If he thought he needed to learn how to handle awkward situations as an adult before, what the Hell did he need to learn now? How not to be a douche bag and control his anger?

Elizabeth gives him a small frown when he walks over, meaning she must've witnessed the big blow up.  

“Did Benny show up for work?" Dean asks hands deep in his pockets. He already knows the answer.

"Sorry, sha," She looks at him pityingly. 

"Well, if you see him, tell him we need to talk," Dean says, tucking his chin against his collar and leaving. 

If Elizabeth, Benny's own goddamn sister, didn't know where he was—Dean only had one thought, where the Hell was Benny?


	2. Faubourg

Dean bites his thumbnail, eyes darting between the multiple pictures and titles that immediately pop up when he hits search on Pornhub. Because how else should he end a frustrating week than by beating one out? After the whole ordeal with Castiel, Benny, and dealing with that motherfucker Crowley—he deserves this.

There’s an arena full of videos pulled up: gay, straight, and everything in between. Dean was an equal-opportunities kinda guy. Which also translated to: if it was hot he wasn’t going to deny himself the pleasure. So, maybe that's why, after scrolling for half an hour with his right hand, he finally clicks on a video with two promising looking guys in the screenshot. His left hand—and yes Dean is an advocate of jerking off with your least dominant hand—squeezes painfully around his dick.

The intro is loud, a bunch of moaning guys and squelching sounds before the intended title pops up: Mark Cocksucker in ANAL CHIROPRACTOR #6. Not the most appealing name. Dean keeps his now cramping fingers on the trackpad in case he needs to quickly exit the tab. Relaxing back into the comforter, he is content to half listen to the cheesy setup.

The story, that Dean only barely pays attention to, goes like this: A guy with blond hair and a pension to stay shirtless decides it's time to get his sore back checked out, Dean instantly takes to calling him Chisel chest. He meets the chiropractor, a gorgeous older man that Dean realizes is probably Mark by the lingering camera shots of his plump lips. Mark does a pretty shitty job pretending he’s an actual chiropractor, all his energy spent looking sexily at the camera and oiling up Chisel chest’s sun-kissed back.

Dean does, eventually, feel heat pool in the pit of his stomach when Chisel chest pulls Mark in for a deep _loving_ kiss. Or at least, it looks loving until Mark pulled back and whispers, “yeah, you like that you little gay slut?”

He skims through the rest of the build-up, clicking aimlessly at the progress bar. He lands on Chisel chest leaning over the table, Mark eating him out. It’s a nice image, Mark’s sharp jaw with a five o'clock shadow pressed between two full freckled cheeks. Dean’s grip tightens on his cock.  
  
But before he can even start stroking—his phone rings.

“Shit,” he curses, slamming the laptop shut and tucking himself back in.

What kind of asshole calls at, he squints at the digital clock on his nightstand, goddamn ten p.m.? Grumbling as he hauls himself up from his pillow and blanket nest, knees popping, he reaches for his phone on his dresser and nearly drops it.  
  
It’s Castiel’s office number.  
  
Well, at least he's limp now.  
  
The last time they talked, last Thursday, everything had quickly plummeted into a spiral of horrible cringe-worthy moments. From the initial awkward tension to the huge blow-up fight, Dean hadn't acted so immature since he was in his twenties. Castiel hadn't tried to get in contact since then, but Crowley sure had. It was like Castiel had been the buffer and now the floodgates were open.

He'd been sent contract after contract, all that he refused to sign without a lawyer. Crowley was getting impatient. But with Benny dropping off the face of the earth, Castiel leaving him up shit creek without a paddle, and a steadily growing amount of debt against his name—Dean was just plain screwed. He was just waiting for the IRS to come after him next.

Trying to control his rapidly beating heart, Dean picks up the phone, "Yeah?"  
  
"Hello, Dean," Castiel answers.  
  
"Uh, hey! I wasn't, um, expecting you to, uh, call," Dean mumbles, closing his eyes and gripping the phone with two hands. "So, what happened to Kelly?"

"She's gone home for the night."

"Yeah. Well, it _is_ almost midnight." Dean says.  
  
"I know it's late, Dean, but I can't put this off any longer. I feel the need to apologize for my behavior at Guidry's. It was totally unprofessional and wasted valuable time that we should be spending trying to figure out how to solve this mess." Castiel's voice is matter-of-fact and well mannered.

"You don't need to apologize, dude. I was the one who threatened to give you a beat down. I'm sure you could sue my ass from here to eternity for the stuff I said," Dean gets a sense of deja vu. "I have the feeling that you apologize for everything, even if it isn't your fault."

"Well, it's polite," Castiel says, stilted. "Besides, I should've respected your wishes and not stepped over your boundaries."  
  
"It wasn't like we had a safe word," Dean jokes, cringing as soon as it leaves his mouth. "I mean—I just—Sweet Mary mother of fuck. Listen, you shouldn't be putting yourself down. Seriously, it's not healthy or whatever. Especially when the person you think you offended isn't even upset anymore. I guess what I'm tryna say is: we're both a couple of dumbasses. And we're both to blame. First impressions are a shit show, anyway. So, we should start over."

Castiel was breathing directly into the receiver, "I agree."  
  
"Well, that's good." Dean's satisfied. He quickly adds, "But none of that cringy reintroducing ourselves nonsense."

"Noted," Castiel chuckles into the receiver. "I never finished asking you questions last week."

"Really? I thought you waited until after all the questions had been asked to storm off dramatically?" Dean jokes.

"That would've been more convenient. I'll remember that for next time," Castiel says back, deadpan.

"Next time?" Dean breathes out a little woodenly. 

"Yes, next time. When can we hook up, again?" Castiel asks in his smoky voice.

The words sound so dirty, it makes the hard-on he had earlier threaten to resurrect.

"I'm free all week."  
  
Castiel pauses, pen scratching across paper, and then, "How about tomorrow? At six p.m.?"

"Sure and we can meet at my apartment," Dean suggests, backtracking as soon as he realizing how strange it sounds. "Not for anything weird. I'm not trying to get you alone or anything. It's just so you can see what kind of place I live in. Y'know, to help you with your consultation."

"Of course, Dean." Castiel agrees easily. "And I insist that all further meetings be free to make up for how I acted the last time we met."

"That's generous of you," Dean rubs his mouth, embarrassed.

"It's just to clear my conscious," Castiel assures.

He wrings his hands, phone pressed between his cheek and shoulder. "Yeah. Alright. Um, do you want to eat dinner here?"

Castiel hums, "If it doesn't put you out."

"Takeout, dude." Dean manages a laugh. "You don't mind Chinese, right?"

"No. I look forward to it," Castiel says sincerely.  
  
Dean waits a few moments, just to make sure Castiel is done talking. The more seconds that tick by the more nervous he becomes. Great, is he about to have another anxiety attack? Why does everything come back to this point of awkwardness? Is he the only one who feels it or is Castiel experiencing the same conundrum? When half a minute of silence had gone by without interruption, he bursts it with heated cheeks.

"I'll, uh, see you then, Cas."  
  
"Yes. Goodbye, Dean."

When neither of them hangs up, again, he takes a calculated risk. "Hey, Cas?"

"Yes, Dean?"

"I didn't say I loved you this time." He licks his lips in anticipation.

Castiel huffs out a small chuckle. "I noticed, Dean. Goodnight."

"Night, Cas." His eyes crinkle.  
  
Once they're disconnected, Dean flops down onto his bed. Filling, holding, deflating his cheeks and then palming his damp forehead. Why is it so hard trying to talk to Castiel? It's like everything that escapes his mouth is some psycho-babble. Maybe him being tongue-tied is a turn on for Castiel? Hopefully, he finds Dean's loss of words, or excess of, at least somewhat charming—because right now, that's all he's got going for him.  
  
He's one awkward silence away from a mental breakdown. And Castiel is awesome, nevermind the whole argument they had last time, the guy is pretty much exactly what Dean wants. He's got this dry humor, wit so deadpanned that sometimes even Dean misses it. He's nice, the free meetings are a sign of that. He tells it like it is, and if it had been anything other than pointing out Dean's own problems Dean would've loved the no-bullshit honesty. Castiel is genius, maybe even smarter than Sammy. And to top it all off, he's drop dead gorgeous. So, even the thought of a stilted conversation makes him grit his teeth, nose crinkled and eyes closed tight.    
  
God, he's fallen hard and fast.

It's worse than Sammy's first high school relationship with that Madison chick. Well, he's not that pathetic. He at least has enough resilience not to instantly jump Castiel when he first saw his bright blue eyes. Sam took her to the kennel and back within hours of knowing each other. So, really, he does have an inch on Sam regarding pinning. Then again, at least Sam acted on his feelings, and at the summer sweet age of seventeen. Dean's almost middle-aged and he can't imagine any scenario where he'd admit his schoolgirl crush to Castiel.  
  
Goddamnit, he _is_ fucking pathetic.  
  
Sighing, he reopens his laptop. The porn from earlier auto-playing. Mark's got Chisel chest pinned down on the table, thrusting into him like a jackhammer. His sweaty hands clenching the blue plastic, white-knuckled. But Dean just exits incognito mode (because no matter how far away from Sam he moves the Sasquatch always manages to snoop on his search history, the U.S. waists time complaining about _big_ brother).

With nothing better to do, he opens Netflix. Time for a good ol' fashion binge.

 

 

"Dean, why didn't you just come to me?" Sam asks, exasperated. "I know I don't practice contract law, but I'm still an attorney."

"I _did_ ask for help," He squawks, "You sent back two lines of the Home-Alone-emoji."

"You expected me to take that text seriously? You asked _how would someone get out of being sued?_ Every word was misspelled or shortened," Sam sounds exasperated. "I thought you were being a jerk! You could've at least asked more earnestly, but it's like you didn't even want me to give the text a second glance. At least next time leave out the LOL at the end. It's a mixed message waiting to happen."  
  
"You know me, Sammy. I'm a martyr to my core. And you don't get to complain about my LOL usage when it was your fault I bought this plastic touch screen crap in the first place," Dean looks down at the paper, sighing. "Besides, Castiel said he was sorry and agreed to help me again. No harm no foul. And he said he'd consult me free of charge because of our last meeting."  
  
"What's his name again? Castiel Novak-Shurley? Why does that name sound so familiar?" Sam mutters to himself.  
  
"Hell if I know, but I'm getting a pretty good deal here. No need to waste it because little darling Sammy feels left out," Dean tries to tease.  
  
Sam snaps his fingers, "His brothers are Lucifer Novak and Michael Shurley. They're the top lawyers in their field. I mean, they practically run the entire criminal law jurisdiction."  
  
"Calm your nerd boner. I'm sure Castiel can get you their autographs if you say please," Dean smirks.  
  
Sam scoffs, "Dean, I don't look up to these guys. In fact, both are pretty much poster boys for what not to do. They always bring up personal shit, evidence always gets lost or fabricated, and the judge has to overrule or call order when they notoriously end up monologuing. They're not good people. Are you sure you want to stick with this Castiel guy? If he's anything like his brothers, I'd suggest losing his number."  
  
"Thanks, gentle giant, but I don't need your hand holding."  
  
Sam snorts, "Okay, then. Don't say I didn't warn you, though."  
  
Dean rolls his eyes, changing the subject. "How's Eileen?"  
  
And that gets Sam going for hours.

 

 

 

"You brought wine?" Dean crosses his arms, leaning against the door frame. He tries not to notice how scruffy Castiel's jaw had gotten. The sharp angles covered with stubble. Dean also tries not to imagine how nice the facial hair would feel against his skin. Beard burn on the inside of his thighs. Chapped lips trailing kissing across his hips, legs, knees. It's obvious he hasn't shaved in a few days and probably even more obvious that Dean is drooling.  
  
Castiel coughs, bending his head down, "My brother said it was customary when visiting another person's home."  
  
Dean stifles a laugh. "Yeah, maybe if you're going to an engagement party or as a housewarming gift."  
  
His shoulders slump, "Oh. Well, I—"  
  
"I think your brother's fucking with you," Dean interrupts, reaching out to pat Castiel's shoulder. He takes the bottle with his other hand. "But don't worry, I'll always accept free alcohol as a peace offering. Even if it is this fruity shit."  
  
"Well, that's good." Castiel half-smiles, slender fingers intertwining in front of him.  
  
"Hell, yeah. Now, come in," Dean steps out of the way and closes the door behind them. "Lemme go look in the kitchen for a couple of wine glasses. I'm sure we got that fancy shit up in the cabinets. My brother's wife, Eileen, likes to believe she's a wine connoisseur and since we're super accommodating at Casa de Winchester, there's usually a glass hiding somewhere. The lazy susan or dishwasher are likely suspects."  
  
Castiel hangs back in the living room. "Don't go through too much trouble for me, Dean."  
  
He prattles on to fill the empty space. "Nah. No trouble, really. Laissez les bon temps rouler or whatever the fuck they say. And if we don't, it won't hurt us to just use a stemless glass. Make yourself at home in there, by the way. The couch is lumpy, a few loose coils and springs, but it does its job. Benny found it on the side of the road, actually. I reupholstered it because no way was I gonna sit on something that probably had more cum stains than a whore's backside, ya know?" He finds two in the top cabinet. "Aha! Here we go."  
  
Walking back out to the living room, he sets the glasses on the table and joins Castiel on the sofa. Dean digs the Impala's keys from his pocket, jabbing the sharp end into the cork, twisting and pulling. Once the neck is empty, he pours the dark burgundy liquid into their glasses.  
  
"Thank you." Castiel takes a sip, placing the glass back on the coffee table.  
  
Dean hums around his own mouth full, "It's not the end-all-be-all of alcoholic beverages, but this it's pretty damn good.  
  
Castiel smiles enigmatically. "So Gabriel was right?"  
  
"Is that your brother's name?" Dean asks curiously.  
  
"Coincidentally," Castiel leans back, body angled towards Dean. "Do you have any siblings? I remember you mentioning a brother, I think."  
  
Dean grins, relaxed. This is a topic he could rattle on about for days.

"Yeah, I've got a little brother. His name's Sam. He's my pride and joy, really. Dad left and Mom had to work, so I practically raised the kid. He's only four years younger than me and runs his own law firm. He's proposed to his girlfriend this year, too. I thought she might not say yes. Eileen is more of an independent woman. But thankfully she agreed to marry the Sasquatch. Mom nearly killed us when she found out. She thought we were excluding and conspiring against her or something."  
  
"Your brother owns his own firm? That's impressive," Castiel comments. "What field does he specialize in? Medical, tax, criminal?"  
  
"Family," Dean replies. "When our dad divorced our mom, he had a pretty nasty lawyer try and convince him to sue for full custody. I can't even imagine what our lives would've looked like if he followed through. Anyway, long story short, Sam wanted to help kids and he had a knacked for all things law. It was easy to put two and two together."

Talking about Sam is easy. It's safe and comfortable because he loves his little brother. But with Castiel watching him with those big raindrop eyes, sparkling like Dean rambling on about his idiot little brother is the biggest secret in the universe, giving Dean his full undivided attention with a soft smile on his face—Dean's trying really hard to remember that this is a business meeting, not a date.

Looking down at Castiel's outfit distracts him enough. He's not dressed like a Constantine cosplayer this time, trading his navy suit for a royal blue sweater that compliments his eyes and a crisp white undershirt that cuts off right at his collarbones. He's wearing khakis, too. Castiel must notice him looking because he informs, "Gabriel helped me pick out this outfit, too. Said meeting at your home was too casual for my usual get up."  
  
Dean pours himself another glass. "Y'know, I feel strange drinking this. Like I'm a little too trailer park for merlot."  
  
"What's wrong with living in a trailer?" Castiel asks, reaching for his glass.  
  
"Nothing," Dean assures quickly. "It's just some bullshit stereotypical way to describe low-class hicks like myself."

Castiel sipping his wine dogmatically. "How would you describe me?"  
  
"You're a yuppie like Sammy," Dean doesn't hesitate.  
  
"That's a thinly veiled compliment. I can tell how deeply you care for your brother," Castiel smiles gently, flushed.

His cheeks are a vibrant pink and Dean can't stop looking. They're almost the same ballet shoe color as the tiles in his bathroom. He'd wanted to renovate most of this pissant apartment when he moved in, but Crowley'd been strictly against it. So, he lived in a house with extremely pink tiles, parquet kitchen flooring, and a water stain above the shower that looked like a mildly constipated Elvis.

"The kid is lucky I care about him at all," Dean jokes, scratching his jaw. "He practically ran away from home."

"He moved out young?" Castiel asks, interested.

"It was tough at home." He concedes, pinching his bottom lip between his pointer finger and thumb. Apparently, share and care time had started. With butterflies in his stomach, he tries to rationalize why it's so easy to talk about heavy things with Castiel. "With mom raising us by herself, Sam never really got an apple pie childhood. That doesn't mean I didn't try and give him what all the other kids had. Hell, I bought him a GameBoy with the money I'd picked up from mowing lawns.

"Anyway, the kid emancipated himself at sixteen. The first sign of him wanting to be a lawyer, really. I got so mad when he came home with the document, flashing it around like some little league trophy, but I wasn't surprised in the slightest. He'd been taking college classes during high school, graduating early and moving out west. He got into Stanford with a full ride. Graduated top of his class and is even going back for his doctorate.

"And don't get me wrong, I'm proud of the kid." Dean struggles to get it out, "But the way he left will always be a bad memory. Mom was devastated to find out. She was a single mom and doing the best she could. Pulling all-nighters and getting extra jobs just so we could keep our house. It wasn't her fault we were left alone for most of our childhoods. I mean, I blame dad more. But Sam, he's always been more like our dad. He gets along better with him, forgave him for getting a brand new shiny family. I guess now, all these years later, I'm still on mom's side."

Castiel reaches his hand out, resting his palm of Dean's knee, "You don't have to justify your dysfunctional family. My own has been a place of contempt for years now. My mother and father had me out of a drunken hook-up. I'm sure you've wondered about my hyphenated last name. My mother is a Novak, who had been married with two children before she met my father, who is a Shurley with his own son. I'm a splotch to their lives. A mistake that ties them and my siblings together for life."

Dean squeezes Castiel's palm. "I'm sorry."

"It's quite alright, Dean. I didn't mean to steal your moment." Castiel intertwines their fingers.

"You didn't steal anything," Dean says, pulling his hand away. "Anyway, about Sammy, I feel like I've gotten used to him not wanting me to hang around. It was hard at first, but now I've taken the reins. I just had to get used to him having experiences without me around to see."

Someone knocks on the door. Probably Chinese food.

Instead of answering, even when the second string of knocks come through, Dean just sits there.  
  
"Want me to get that?" Castiel asks after the third knock.  
  
Dean shakes his head, "Nah. They give up around five and end up leaving it at the door."  
  
"But what about paying?" Castiel asks.

"I already paid on the app," Dean explains.

"Oh," Castiel nods as they wait for the telltale sound of retreating feet.

He opens the door and takes the bag of food off the doorknob. Their fortune cookies crushed at the bottom with two pairs of wooden chopsticks. He ordered a carton of chow mein, white rice, and spring rolls. Setting their stash on the previously mentioned coffee table, Dean's knees pop when he sits back down. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out his phone and gives whatever college kid that delivered their food five stars.

Chewing into his first bite of noodles, Dean looks up at Castiel. The guy is trying, and failing, to eat rice with chopsticks. It's adorably dorky. Dean looks down before he gets caught staring. Castiel _must_ be aware of his own scruffy gorgeousness, Dean rationalizes. He, himself, changed five times before Castiel showed up: ending up wearing his favorite blue jeans, a green flannel, and a black undershirt. And even now he's self consciously tugging at the frayed strings in the pants. Castiel's oblivious hunk shit has to be an act. One simply can't be that good looking and not be aware of it or at least flaunt it.

"So you had some more questions for me?" Dean reminds.

"Just a few more," Castiel shoves his chopsticks into his rice, giving up on the tedious task of eating one grain at a time.

The conversation comes easy after that. He feels light and happy for once.  
  
"And to think I almost had a panic attack when we first talked on the phone," Dean says without thinking.  
  
Castiel squints, "What do you mean?"

"Um," He's dumb for even mentioning it, for bringing it to attention. Goddamnit. His positive mood quickly souring. Dean chews on his bottom lip roughly, some skin peels off and he can taste blood. "I have a thing. It's not important, really. I just can't handle talking over the phone. Probably the least glamorous anxiety, honestly. I mean, of course, I'd get stuck with the bitch-made version of a disorder."

Oh God, why does he keep talking? As if talking Castiel's ear off earlier hadn't been enough of an embarrassment, now he's talking so much he's boring himself. At least Castiel looks interested. Or well, maybe he's just acting. Pretending so it won't get awkward. So Dean's feelings won't get hurt. Castiel is essentially schmoozing a client right now and Dean is a fly caught in his web.

"My sister has trouble talking on the phone, too," Castiel shares.  
  
Dean blanches. He swears he sees disgust blossom on Castiel's face, his cheeks puffing up and reddened with anger. But as soon as Dean blinks, Castiel stop. Almost like Dean clicked his ViewMaster and it changed what he saw. In reality, Castiel had a soft upturn to his mouth and was looking at him with a knowing arch to his right brow. Dean can't for the life of him keep eye contact.

"Great, I just accidentally insulted your sister. Why is it so hard talking to you? I always end up sounding like an ass."  
  
"Self-doubt is never wise, Dean," Castiel says sagely.  
  
"Yeah, yeah, Delhi-Yoda. Tell me something I don't know." He stares down at his wine, betrayed that it won't be able to get him drunk. He needs hard liquor for that. And from the way he has unintentionally built his tolerance up, at least half a bottle.  
  
"Dean, do you have social anxiety?" Castiel poses the question with a certain nonchalant-ness. It sorta helps.

Shrugging, Dean runs is free hand through his hair. "Hell if I know, man. I mean, can you really see me going to some back-washed shrink and getting diagnosed? I don't think so."

"Both times we've met, you've chosen the venue. First at Guidry's and now your own home. Both places you feel comfortable in. You broke up with Benny, but it was non-confrontational and you still haven't moved out. You didn't answer the door when our food came. Every time you say something that doesn't get the reaction you want, you tense up, clear your throat, and blush." Castiel puzzles like he's some sorta fucking Sherlock Holmes.

Dean tries not to do all three. "Those are some keen observation skills."  
  
"We've already established I'm too blunt and nosy for my own good." kidding on the square, Castiel says, "There's nothing to be ashamed of."  
  
"I guess I'm getting my head shrunk whether I want to or not," Dean puffs up his chest, trying not to act uncomfortable. 

"It explains a few things," Castiel goes on, ignoring him. "But you should know that I respect you for being so honest with me."

"If only it could get me outta this whole mess with Crowley," Dean says offhandedly.

Castiel sits up straight, "Why didn't I think of that? Dean, you're a genius!"

"What?" Dean asks, bemused.

 "We could really use this in your case! My sister suffers from a disability that gives her certain privileges on renting," Castiel explains more stoically. "She communicated back and forth with the Fair Housing Council and they agreed that she should have leniencies. We can use this to help _you_." 

"That doesn't seem kosher, Cas," Dean says. It actually sounded like abusing the system.

"This isn't dirty Dean, this is using your clearly anxious mental health to assure you won't get sued. We aren't taking Crowley's money here. We're giving you a grace period to sort things out—to get in touch with Mr.Lafittle. This will prevent him from being able to charge you late fees. Dean, this is our way out of the situation. I mean, you'll still have to come up with the money you owe, but we can break your lease after the fact."

Dean shakes his head, "Cas, I'm not some insane schizo. I just get _shy_."

"You have anxiety," Castiel corrects.

"It's a no from me, Cas," Dean says, resistant.

Castiel huffs, standing up, "I don't know how you expect me to help you, Dean. First, you won't let me assign Benjamin Lafitte the full blame and now you won't take this out that has basically _fallen_ into our laps. I don't know if you've noticed but we don't have a lot of options here. Do you even want to get away scot-free or are you a gluten for punishment? Because even if it's a fifty-fifty crapshoot, you risk the chance of going to jail if we do nothing!"

"Of goddamn course, I want to get out of this!" Dean rises to his feet too. "But not by cutting corners and being shady."

"Is this some moral dilemma you're having? Because it shouldn't apply when what I'm suggesting isn't wrong!" Castiel grits.

 "I can't believe we're fighting again." Dean stalks away, towards the bedroom.

Castiel follows him. "I don't want to fight, Dean. I want to make this work and I want to be professional about this. But you're making that hard." 

"Obviously I'm making this hard! You asked me to stop being loyal to Benny," Dean almost shouts.

"I'm not asking you stop being friends with him. And I'm not asking you to pretend to be disabled," Castiel shuts his eyes, rubbing his temples. "You're clearly in need of therapy. You need professional help. This isn't some grand scheme that I'm basing off a lie. I'm trying to help you. How could you be so blind to both your needs and my intentions?" 

"Sam was right. You're _just_ as criminal as your brothers," Dean grunts back.

Castiel rears back like he's been slapped. "How dare you? How dare you say that to me! Micheal and Lucifer are wicked and evil and corrupt and I'm _nothing_ like them. Do you hear me, Dean? I'm nothing like them!" 

"If you think this isn't dishonest then I have news for you, you're _worse_ than them," Dean snaps, shoving Castiel against the hallway wall. "You're worse because you act innocent. You act superior. You hide behind pretty blue eyes and a handsome face and you pretend to be angelic and naive. But you're just like them, maybe even worse!"

"You're calling me dishonest? You knew about my brothers this whole time!" Castiel shouts, pushing against Dean's hold on him, "If anyone is a liar here, it's you! You acted like learning about me was new information. You let me try and console you about your family but in actuality, you knew about my brothers and didn't bother to let me know!"

"Like that is even on the same level of shit you're trying to pull." Dean scoffs, bringing his face closer. Their noses brush. "Just know, I won't be taking your offer. And if you expect me to change my mind, good luck. Y'know, I had the right idea about you. I can't believe I felt bad for knocking you down a few pegs last week."  

It's then that he notices Castiel's eyes glued to his mouth, it's not at all subtle. He raises his hands up to wrap around Castiel's jaw, tracing Castiel's lip lightly with the tip of his finger. Castiel's eyes widen, chest heaving.

He leans in, pausing to make sure Castiel actually wants this, and then they're kissing. It's rough and bruising. His lip feels slightly chapped under Dean's, but their teeth clash as they press harder together. His lip starts bleeding from where he worried it before, but he can't find it in him to care. Castiel's hands roam under his shirt, squeezing Dean's sides and pulling him closer. 

But before he can deepen it further, Castiel pushes him away. Wiping his lips with the back of his hand. "No." 

Dean feels embarrassment curl in his chest. He turns away. "Get out."

"Gladly," Castiel scoots away from him, walking towards the door and looking back to say. "I hope you figure this out, Dean."

The door slams shut and Dean slides down the wall—holding himself. It had all gone wrong so quickly, all he can do is hug himself and text his mom.


	3. Quoi Faire

When Benny walks through the door, clean-shaven in a button-down top and shined shoes, Dean remains still on the couch. He'd just put his last Beatles vinyl in a cardboard box with _pawn shop_ marked on the side in messy sharpie. Earlier, he had packed the blender and toaster they had received as home warming presents into a plastic bin labeled _appliances_. And before that, he had piled the last of his flannels into the same black duffle bag he used to move to Louisiana originally. 

He knew immediately who it was when he heard the key slide into the lock and jiggle around—the damn thing had a knacked for getting stuck. He remembers waiting for hours in the muggy hallway during the spicy Cajun summer, the locksmith never arriving, shirt stuck to his skin with sweat. Benny wasn't due home for another thirty minutes and Dean thought he could wait it out. But right as he was about to pass out their neighbor, Mr. Devereaux, walked over with a master key and shimmied the door open. Don't ask Dean why the old coot had a key that could unlock the whole building, he was just grateful not to have a heat stroke. 

Benny shuffles closer. He has something in his hands, red and circular like a poker chip. "Hi, Dean. I'm, um, finally back."

Dean ignores him, there's a faded orange stain on the ceiling that's _way_ more interesting. It had happened almost a week after they moved in, Dean cooking actual spaghetti instead of spaghetti-os, excited to dive head first into the culinary world. But, halfway into simmering down the tomato paste, his metal spoon got too hot and Dean ended up repainting the popcorn ceiling blood red. It had waned away like a crescent moon since then, but the memory remains.

"Beb, I know I've got a lot of explaining to do—" Benny starts cautiously.

"Goddamn right you do," Dean bites out, unable to help himself.

"I was a de’pouille, a complete mess," Benny at least has the notion to sound sorry.

Eyes filling with frustrated tears he refuses to let drop, Dean looks over at Benny. "You really fucked me over. I've been on my own for nearly a month now. Crowley has my goddamn ass and everything I'm worth in his corner. And the only reason I didn't report you as a missing person was that Elizabeth kept sneaking these little hints every time I called." 

Benny holds out his hand, the red chip sitting squarely in his palm, "Dean, I'm an alcoholic— _Damn_ , it feels good to admit that—This is my sobriety coin. I know this isn't a justifiable excuse as to why I dropped off the face of the earth, but Dean, I'm asking you to forgive me. I've been in rehab this past month and I'm really trying to get my life together. That's why I'm here."

"That's the reason, huh?" Dean grabs the chip, spinning it around in his hands. It's such a puny looking thing. "This token is why you came here to talk to me? Not because you were sorry but because some AA goal is to have your life together? Benny, I'm getting _sued_ , you sorry sonuvabitch. I'm going to lose everything. I'm literally moving out of this apartment as we speak. I'm going to be the loser forty-year-old that's living with his mom. All thanks to you not paying your side of the rent and taking my half to do God knows what. This isn't something to just sweep under the rug."

"I know, Dean," Benny takes the chip back, shoving it into his pants pocket. "I know I'm a piece of shit. Do you want to know what I did with your money? I used it all to settle some debt I had with my old boss. He really had me under his thumb. When Elizabeth was in the hospital, I didn't know what to do. The insurance wouldn't cover her and I was broke. So, I decided to take a loan. I won't go into details, Dean. But it got to the point where he was threatening Elizabeth. He was threatening Andrea. He was threatening _you_. I paid him off and tried to right myself. Elizabeth suggested rehab and I went. But I ended up screwing you over and I'm so sorry."

It was hard staying angry at Benny, no matter how hard Dean tried. "You should've told me. I would've helped."

"I know you would've, Dean." Benny grabs his hand. "You're loyal to the end. But this was something I needed to do on my own. And the guilt I felt for taking your money almost made it impossible to face you again. But that's why I'm here. To right all my wrongs. Dean, I want to take full blame for not paying our rent. I want the responsibility."

Dean shakes his head. "Benny, you know I wouldn't ask you to do that. I wouldn't turn on you like some viper."  

"It's my mess. And just like I cleaned up my alcoholism, I want to clean up this," Benny squeezes his hand and stands up. "I just stopped by to apologize and let you know what I was doing. But now I'm going to Crowley's to explain. You won't have to move out. You can stop packing. Or maybe you want to break our lease, honestly, I'm fine either way. I'm moving in with Andrea and we're going to tackle this together." 

" _We_ could tackle this together," Dean says, hating the way he sounds. So pathetic. 

Benny leans down to kiss him, dry and quick. "I know you never stopped loving me. But maybe this will help. Us being apart. 

 _He's wrong_ , Dean thinks. He hasn't loved Benny in years. He missed Benny, that's for sure. Their relationship was easy. It was like a friendship. But if Benny thought Dean was still pinning over him and he was wrong.

Because as much as Dean dreamt about holding Benny's hand and kissing him, being with Benny was sorta like settling. Like a hair caught in your mouth that you try to pull out but you've already chewed half of it with the rest of your food—so you just give in and swallow it. That's what being in love and kissing Benny is like. Because Dean always ended up giving more of himself than what Benny did. In the end, Castiel was right. Dean was a pushover. 

He touches his lips and for the second time this week Dean says: "Get out."

 

 

 Marry squawks noisily when he tells her. "But I already made up your old room! And I bought enough pie to feed an army."

 "Can't you share it with that neighbor you've been cougaring after?" Dean jokes. 

"I'll have you know Arthur is almost forty." She harumphs, neglecting to compare her own age. Then, she unexpectedly looks concerned, "Dean, what happened? You made it sound so detrimental over text, like moving out of state was your only option. Now, it's like you're actively looking for ways to stay in Louisianna."

Dean smiles at the camera, seeing the little version of himself in the corner repeat the motion. "The situation sorted itself out. I don't know what else to tell you. And yeah, I do want to stay here. I made friends and even LARP once a month. I like my job and think I'm going to get promoted soon. Listen, I know it might not be as ritzy as Sammy's life or as exciting as your bachelorette life, but I'm happy here."

She sniffs, eyes wet. "Oh, baby, you know I'm so proud of you."

He looks down shyly. "Of course, mom."

She wipes her cheeks, "Now, let's hang up so I can call your brother and gossip about you." 

 

 

 

He parks the Impala in front of Castiel's firm, his armpits soaked with sweat. Walking up the path to the door is numbing. The building isn't big, definitely smaller than Sam's firm out in California. The outside is covered in this gray stipple, it looks a lot like popcorn ceiling but vomited back up. And there's a winding handicap ramp that has the words _Anna's only_  carved into the first board.  

The inside is extremely cold, like walking into the doctor's office or the meat aisle in a grocery store. There are two tangerine seats in what look like a waiting room, magazines splayed out on a round wooden table. There's a couch, too. It's a green mosy color. The walls are covered in this ugly wallpaper; toile and red. All the colors look harsh against each other and he finds himself smiling at the thought of Castiel picking out each item.

In the middle of the room is a desk with a woman sitting behind it. She is very professional looking, with her hair tied back and a pearl neckless around her throat. Her name is on a plaque, sitting ominously on the lip of her desk like an achievement. Kelly Kline. Castiel's receptionist. There's a computer on her desk, too. Post notes with red ink are littered across every free space. His eyes fall on a few picture frames. There's one kid that keeps popping up in most of them. Then he notices a picture on her desk of Castiel and the kid. They look close. He tries not to think about what it implies.

"Is, um, Castiel here?" Thankfully, his voice isn't as shaky as he feels.

"No, he just left for Illinois this morning." Her voice is very polished with little to no anxiety seeping through. He's jealous of Kelly, and her unbreakable calm isn't the only reason.

"Oh." He feels wrong-footed. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. 

"I can get you in touch with one of our other Lawyers whilst—" Dean drowns her out, turning on his heal and leaving the building.

It wasn't meant to be, apparently. And as he drives down the highway, all his belonging in the trunk of his Impala, he throws the flowers he brought out the window. He contemplates tossing the Chinese food and Abita beer while he's at it, but that might be one step too far into littering.

He turns up Zepplin, the speakers vibrating unpleasantly at the headache-inducing volume and with nothing else to do: he drives.

 

 

 

It happens when he's least expecting it, out buying groceries. He's pretty settled into his new place, closer to Rufus's garage and incredibly more cheep. He's got a cart full of things Sam and his mom would disapprove of, all unhealthy and an attack against his blood pressure. It's been four months since he last saw Castel, the hurt he experienced long since faded into regret. He regrets how they parted. The way they fight is all consuming. It's firey and passionate. It gets Dean hard just thinking about it. But the kiss and the way Castiel had looked at him afterward. That's what he regrets. 

Crowley had backed off almost immediately when Benny stepped up. Dean still was in the dark on how that was going. After their last talk Dean had all but stopped calling Elizabeth, going to Guidry's Cajun Café, or even thinking about Benny. It's like a hole in his life, a best friend shaped hole, but he's been steadily filling it with a girl from his LARP group. Charlie wormed her way in without warning and was swiftly becoming the most annoyingly wonderful friend he's ever had.

He's not paying attention, trying to bend over to reach the bottom shelf for some fettuccine pasta without throwing his back out. 

Footsteps sound and he looks over to see nice dress shoes. His eyes trail up the thick legs, broad chest, and wide shoulders.

Castiel looks even more breathtakingly beautiful than the last time Dean saw him. His hair is pointing in ten different directions. His eyes are squinting around a smile and they're just as blue as Dean remembered. He's wearing his suit and trenchcoat combo, holding the handle of a basket full of groceries in his right hand: Apple pie, cherry pie, and some merlot. Dean thinks it's odd a supermarket chain like this has such fancy wine. He also thinks Castiel looks lovely.

Dean is instantly aware of how disheveled he looks. His ratty jeans, grease-smudged shirt, and unwashed hair. He looks like a sloppy mechanic— and he _is_ , but he doesn't want Castiel, who looks utterly dazzling, to see him like this. He stands up, tucking his hands in his pockets. They had grease embedded under the nails. His lips pull into his most winning smile, trying to cover up how self-conscious he is.

"Heya, Cas," He averts his eyes.

"Hello, Dean," Castiel replies. He's smiling. It's dim. But at least it's there. 

"How, uh, how have you been?" It feels like there's a rock in his throat.

"I just got back from my sister's new place. She lives in Pontiac, now. Anna was sad to leave me, but she was excited to move back into our old home." Castiel says, pausing to look up at Dean through his eyelashes. "It's good to see you, Dean."

"Yeah," Dean rubs the back of his neck, coughing awkwardly. "I came to your office a few months ago."

"Kelly told me," Castiel nods, scuffing his shoe against the linoleum floor. "I was going to call you."

"Yeah?" Dean wonders why he didn't.  

Castiel switches the basket to his other hand. "Is everything going smoothly with Crowley?"

Dean laughs dorkily. "Everything worked out, man. Benny owned up and I'm a free man."

“That giggle,” Castiel notes, his smiling growing. It's not his gummy smile, but it's just as beautiful. 

“I don’t giggle,” Dean blushes, trying to play it off cool.

“Yeah, you do. And it sounds suspiciously like Woody Woodpecker,” Castiel looks proud of his reference.

Dean stumbles for a comeback, “I’ll give you pecker.”

He doesn't get time to have a break down over the odd Freudian slip of an innuendo because Castiel glosses over it. "I'm happy that you're not being sued. To be honest, the thought has plagued me remorselessly these past months. I feel very guilty for the way I let personal matters influence my professional relationship with you."

Dean feels exposed talking about this here. The lights are too bright, fluorescent and white. They shine directly into his eyes. There are people meandering around: grannies with shopping lists and psoriasis, bucktoothed kids that have sticky fingers and runny noses, and pregnant women with swollen ankles and an unfortunate gag reflex. He shifts closer to Castiel, tilting his head forward, trying to make their conversation feel private. Intimate. 

"You shouldn't feel sorry," Dean says. "I was the one that kissed you."

Castiel looks surprised he mentioned the kiss. "I didn't stop you."

That feels like a joke. He attempts to make one back. "I don't know how far you repressed that memory, but you _did_ stop me." 

"No," Castiel shakes his head, frustrated. "I mean, I allowed you to kiss me. You paused and I didn't shove you away."

Dean slowly reaches his hand out, greasy fingernails and all. It idles between them until he awkwardly lets it fall back to his side. "Sure. And we kissed. And _then_ you did the shoving. Wiped your mouth, too. So, I'm sorry you changed your mind halfway through. I'm sorry you felt disgusted you allowed me to kiss you. I just, I thought I felt something. A spark, as cheesy and chick flick as it sounds. But I clearly thought wrong. And I'm sorry." 

Castiel's fingers brush his own. "I felt the spark, too. But the kiss, _it_ didn't feel right." 

Their pinkies intertwine. "I'm sorry my mouth is that gross."

Sighing in exasperation, Castiel says, "No, your mouth is the most magnificent thing to have touched mine."

"Then what was the problem? Was it me bringing up your brothers?"  

Castiel fidgets, opening his mouth to respond—

"Daddy!"

The voice is shrill and coming down the aisle fast. It's the boy from Kelly's pictures. Castiel's hand falls away from his like it was burnt. Dean watches everything in slow-motion, the hand that was just teasing to be held in his own envelops the chubby hand of this kid. He's wearing a striped shirt, has untied laces, and is staring up at Castiel like he's hung the moon. 

"How many times have I told you not to run in the store?" Castiel chastises the kid. "Or yell for that matter?"

"Sorry," The kid mumbles. He notices Dean, pointing with his free hand. "Who's that?"

Castiel looks at Dean, clearly nervous. "That's Dean. Dean, this is Jack. My son."

Dean stares at the kid for a few seconds. "Huh. Hey, buddy."

Jack squints up at him. A carbon copy of his dad. "Hi. How do you know my dad?"

"We're friends," Castiel supplies for him, letting go of Jack's hand to ruffle his hair. Then, he pushes Jack back towards the direction he came from. "Now, why don't you run back off towards your mom. I bet she's having a fit looking for you."

Jack wraps his arms around Castiel's leg, "Can't I stay with you?"

Castiel looks at him, tenderly. "No, Jack. Kelly will be worried. You don't want your mom to worry, do you?"

Sighing with his entire body, Jack pouts but says, "I guess not."

"Good. You should hurry back." Castiel adds as an afterthought, "No running." 

"Okay. Bye, daddy." Jack turns to skip down the aisle. He turns back to shout loudly, "And bye Dean!" 

Then Jack is gone, just as quickly as he appeared. Castiel looks after him, "I'll have to get onto him about the yelling. He must've seen me and broke free of Kelly's hold. Sorry about that." 

"No need." Dean wonders if Castiel and Kelly—Well, he just wonders. "He's cute."

Castiel looks at him knowingly, "I'm not with Kelly, Dean."

Dean blushes. "It's fine. I mean, I've had girlfriends. I probably have some illegitimates out there. Condoms only work ninety-five percent of the time, right? No judgment."

Castiel smirks like he's in on some joke Dean is blatantly missing. "Jack was a planned pregnancy."

"Oh, so it was serious between you two?" Dean tries not to sound upset over Castiel sharing his life seriously enough with Kelly Kline to want to create a child with her. It makes him kind of sick, which is just as crazy since he has no right to be jealous. He has _no_ hold over Castiel, really. 

"Not at all," Castiel says. "In fact, I've never even been with her. I'm gay, Dean."

"Gay men can still have children," Dean says, somewhat defensively.

"Of course. But that's not what I'm saying. I donated sperm and Kelly was artificially inseminated," Castiel explains. "She wanted kids. I was a safe bet. Kelly wanted me in the child's life, I wasn't opposed to it. So, even though Kelly and myself are not together, Jack has me as his father. It's been extremely enriching." 

"I bet," Dean laughs an abrupt laugh. It's short and loud and makes Castiel smile in return. "Goddamn, man. I thought I was some Jezebel." 

"No," Castiel rejoins their hands, palm-to-palm. "I'm single."

"Good," Dean says, then thinks about how weird that sounds. "I mean, uh. Fuck, it's still hard talking to you." 

"It _is_ good," Castiel nods down towards his basket. "I got some pie. Do you want to head back to my place? Maybe we can share each side of the story over some cherry pie and vanilla ice cream? See why you wanted to kiss me like that and why I rightfully pulled away?"

Dean is being teased. But instead of feeling bad, it makes butterflies in his stomach. "Sure. And if we decide to kiss again, I can put on chapstick to fix the grossness of my mouth." 

Castiel scoffs, "Chapstick won't fix the smell of your breath."

They check out together, Dean fumbling with his credit card before remembering he has to insert the damn thing for the chip reader, then carries their bags back to their cars. Dean follows Castiel to his apartment, eyes widening a tad at the swanky neighborhood he's led into. Leaving his own groceries in the trunk, thankfully he didn't buy anything perishable or frozen, he shuts off the Impala and helps Castiel carry his food and put it away in his kitchen.

After they're finished, Castiel leads them to the living room.

Apparently, the reason Castiel pulled away during the kiss was that he liked Dean, as crazy as that sounds. He explained it easily; the kiss was angry and as mad as Castiel was, he didn’t want their first time to be out of hate. It made Dean blush wildly. He sank further into Castiel’s fake leather couch— that had fucking cup holders!— and held the outstretched hand Castiel offered.

His apartment was lived in. Pictures everywhere of a beautiful red-headed woman, a short blond haired man that liked to stick his tongue out, and of course, Jack. Dean remembered back when they first met when Castiel had said that there was no one in his life he said “I love you” to on a daily basis. Dean wonders if this is true. Does he not tell these people that are so clearly loved and looked after with care on his wall that he loves them?

Besides the pictures, the clutter was fantastic. Apparently, just like his firm, Castiel shared the space with a brother. Not the scary evil lawyers that Sam still sends him texts about, but his other brother named Gabriel. Castiel use to also live with Anna, she took the now guest room down the hall with the jack-and-jill bathroom, but she moved back to their parent's place in Illinois. Castiel doesn’t really share why, but Dean has to suspect it has something to do with her disability. There were knick knacks everywhere, blankets piled up on the couch, and more than five remotes for the TV that dish kept sending no matter how many letters Castiel wrote.

Dean had shoveled the last bite of pie into his mouth, scooping the liquidy ice cream out of the bottom of the plate. He wasn’t going to waist this expensive brand of vanilla— the kind that had the actual bean in it. And he groaned, patting his stomach and setting the plate on the coffee table loudly. Oh, yeah, it was a real dish instead of the paper plates Dean used back at his apartment. He tried to set down the other side more gently, leaning his head back against the built-in cushions and relaxing.

Castiel sat beside him, flicking aimlessly through the channels. Dean doesn’t remember the last time he channel surfed, it was such a tiny joy of his life when he was younger and now that he doesn’t have cable, he can’t do it and that didn’t feel like a loss until now. The closest thing he’s got is scrolling through Netflix, but that doesn’t have to same nostalgic power. Maybe Castiel will let him if he asks? He looks at Castiel’s profile, illuminated by the blue hue of the screen.

God, he was beautiful just sitting there without any defenses put up.

“Hey,” Dean says quietly, not wanting to break the easygoing atmosphere that has settled around them. When Castiel looks over, Dean presses his lips to the corner of his mouth. It’s sweet like their first kiss wasn’t. “Thanks for pushing me away. I’m glad we don’t have angry sex awkwardly up there with all the other shit hanging over us.”

“What else is hanging over us?” Castiel asks. “The fact that you forgot your chapstick?”

“Shaddup,” Dean rolls his eyes, grinning. “I'm talking about all those times I lost my cool. You wanting me to do things I was fundamentally against. Me being a narrow-minded asshole because I’ve got a martyr complex. You not calling after Kelly told you I showed up at your office. Me being a dick about your brothers and throwing that mess in your face because I was mad. Really, I could go on." 

Castiel presses his nose against Dean’s cheek, “I already forgave you for having a temper, being hesitant to take my advice, and knowing who my brothers are. You are a human, Dean, I expect you to make mistakes. Now, I’m sorry I was so pushy about Benny and the—"

Dean shushed him, "I think we've done enough apologizing for a lifetime, dude."

"That's fair enough," Castiel says, looking down. "I'm just worried about where this leaves things."

"What do you mean?" Dean knows where this is going.

"Do you want to be my boyfriend?"

"Oh," Dean blinks, slowly. He wasn't expecting Castiel to be so brash. "I mean, of course. Yes. Dude, I've been pining after you since you had that stupid beer foam mustache on our first date."

Castiel blushed, "I didn't know that was a date."

"Of fucking course, it was," Dean laughed. "I ordered for you and you paid for our meal. It was totally a date, man."

"So, I suspect the night at your apartment was a date, too?" Castiel smiles his gummy smile and Dean has to look away.

"You brought a gift, I paid for dinner, and it ended with a kiss," Dean says, shrugging.

"How about today? Is this a date?" Castiel presses his mouth to the underside of Dean's jaw.

"I hope," Dean whines, head falling back. "'Cause then it's our third and you know what _that_ means."

"We still need to discuss things. And we should try to be ration human beings. Our last two disagreements were complete blowouts." Castiel pulls back, running the palms of his hands over his tighs. Dean stays where he is, completely blue-balled. "I'm just a little hesitant to jump directly into something. That's why I didn't call you back, Dean. I like you so much, but I'm scared."

"I'm scared, too," Dean admits. "I've never felt like this before. Or at least, not this fast."

"So you like me a lot?" Castiel smirks, leaning back in. 

Dean rolls his eyes, "God. I didn't know you were this snarky."

"Well, get used to it," Castiel says, "Because as scared as I am, I like you a lot, as well."

"You better like me, I just agreed to be your boyfriend," Dean jokes. 

And then they're kissing again.

It's sweet and miraculous. Castiel's lips are silky but cracked—looks like it's really _Castiel_  who needed chapstick. Their foreheads are touching, noses brushing, and eyelashes fluttering against each other's cheeks. Castiel's hand comes up to cup Dean's jaw, thumb running smoothly over the dimple in his chin. Dean reaches out too, fingers settling around the back of Castiel's neck to tug and play with the dark tuffs and curls that live there.

Shifting closer, thighs pushing together, Dean's tongue curls around Castiel's. Everything feels burning and irresistible, skin clammy yet charged with hairs standing on end and goosebumps breaking out over their arms. He tugs Castiel's hair, grinning when it makes him groan. Dean's practically in Castiel's lap already, so he just throws his right leg over Castiel and starts rutting up against the definite bulge in his pants. 

Castiel yanks his mouth away, head falling back on the sofa and whining faintly. Dean presses his suddenly cool lips with Castiel's anew exposed neck. There's scruff below his jaw, a five o'clock shadow that feels rough under Dean's plush lips. The redolence of Castiel—his natural musk, actually—fills Dean's nostrils and just hangs out. It's a nice smell, like honey and compressed inkpot from signing signatures all day, so he can't really complain. Instead, he drags his mouth along Castiel's Adam's apple, to the sensitive spot behind his ear, and all the way down to his amazing clavicle that is deep enough to catch and measure rainwater.  

"Should we really be doing this?" Castiel asks as Dean sucks on his neck.

"It _is_ the third date," Dean plays, then pulls back. "I'm getting carried away, aren't I?"

He's sitting on Castiel's lap, grinding down on his dick and sucking a hickey onto his neck. Dean is preverbally hiking his leg up and marking his territory. He shifts further back, putting as much space between them as possible. The proximity really doesn't help, because now that he's a safe distance away he can admire the frantic eagerness illustrated on Castiel's body. From the violent sex hair to the raw red lips, Castiel looks debased and Dean can't tell whether he should be guilty or smug.

"As much as I'd love to take you into my bedroom and do unspeakable things to you—" Castiel makes a point to look undividedly at Dean's lips while he speaks. "—I really want to do this right. And if that means waiting a little while to have sex, then so be it."

Dean knows Castiel is right, but that doesn't stop him from wanting to pull down Castiel's pants and engulf the length of his dick into his salivating mouth. He goes for a more controlled response. "Yeah, I know what you mean. Besides, I want to take you on a real date that doesn't end in a screaming match."

"Oh? Well, my new goal is to get you to scream after every date," Castiel flirts, rubbing his hands over Dean's sides.

Dean sighs, content. He rests his head on Castiel's shoulder. "I'm glad we finally got our shit together, man."

"Me too," Castiel replies, simply. 

"Hey," Dean says after a few moments of silence has passed, "Just because we aren't going to go to funky town doesn't mean we can't keep kissing, right?"

Castiel snorts, "Come here."

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this after personal experience and as a way to cleanse my writing palate. Been having writer's block after working on the same couple fics for a few months. Everything just feels stagnant. This short one-shot really helped. Writing in general really helped. Hopefully, whatever you're going through, this fluffy shit will help you, too.
> 
> UPDATE 8/31/18: Remember when this was just a fluffy one-shot? Me neither.
> 
> UPDATE 9/14/18: Alright. Finally finished. Not beta'd, but are you really living life on the edge with one? Anyway, hopefully, it had the ending you wanted. I might write time-stamps if there are enough people that want them. Thanks for reading, seriously. I'm getting the hang of writing longer fics and this one was, and still is, a pleasure. 
> 
> (If you want to message me any prompts or just talk, my twitter is @ImpalaLostiel - I might even tweet about future fics!)
> 
> Comment, kudos, and bookmark! I appreciate the feedback.


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